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"Please, Fenris," Hawke says, averting his eyes and wringing his hands together. They are sitting beside the fireplace, and have been for hours. It has been years since they really talked like this, and things have been all too hectic, lately, for there to be any sense in pursuing what Fenris sees as a doomed relationship. Never mind that Hawke is a magister--
He catches himself, frowning down at the empty wine bottle he holds. Mage, not magister. But never mind the curse Hawke was born with; there are many other things that they cannot seem to agree on. Hawke fears and even hates the templars that chase him, and maybe there they can feel some sense of understanding and camraderie. Moreso now that Danarius is dead and Fenris understands at last that he has the advantage over Hawke. A mage will never really be free. Perhaps there will always be curiosity about the marks on Fenris's skin, but there will never be another slaver sent by his old master.
He is confusing himself, and agitated and flushed with something unexpected over this conversation. "I will not do this to you. You do not know what you are asking for."
He can see the harsh flicker of defiance in Hawke's eyes, the way his soft lips flatten into an annoyed line. Doubtless he wants to insist that he knows exactly what he wants, but he doesn't say so. His shoulders slump, a little, and he stands up. "If-- if you really don't want to, then I can't make you do it."
Fenris has had this conversation with Hawke so many times that it's surprising he would still bring it up. The first time, it was in the small dungeon Danarius's mansion held, under the main floor. Chilly, isn't it? Hawke had joked, laughing a little uncomfortably.
When he had apologized, Hawke had said a little too quickly: Oh, no. Places like this are interesting!
Then, there had been their discussion about Orana, with Fenris pinning Hawke to the wall, demanding to know why he kept her. It's not some dominant show of masculinity, if that's what you're thinking! I'm trying to give her work.
Not believing him, Fenris had silenced him with a kiss, been startled by the way he went slack in Fenris's arms, opened his mouth and sucked on Fenris's tongue. Breaking away, he had demanded an explanation, but Hawke had only said,
If you knew me better, you'd not think I wanted to have to boss people around all day.
Now Hawke is turning around, dejected and probably mortified that he's admitted what he wants. That he has finally been direct is probably a small personal victory. Hawke is terrible about sharing his feelings in a romantic way, and shy about sexual matters in a way Fenris has never understood, considering the company they keep and Hawke's own tendency to joke about them in public. Behind closed doors, it is almost like Hawke is a different person.
A person who looked at Fenris, licking his lips, and asked to be humiliated.
"Wait." He stands up, frowning, pacing, and comes to a decision. "Come with me."
Hawke is startled but does not question him. Together, they go downstairs and through several rooms, approaching the dungeon. When he realizes where they are going, Hawke hesitates, falling back. He clears his throat; Fenris glances back questioningly, and nearly has to look away again. Hawke is blushing, fiddling nervously with his soft robes. It does nothing to conceal the fact that his mind has gone elsewhere and apparently, approves of Fenris's idea.
"Are we really-- are we going to do this?"
There are too many awful memories in Fenris's mind to count, all about things he wishes he could forget; the way people have looked at and spoken to him; the way he was treated by those who thought they owned him; the pain of the lyrium branding that will forever mark his skin. Any time he has been brought to harm in this life, it has been by magic and by those who thought they had the right to humiliate and hurt and subjugate others.
And then there is Hawke. Hawke who, when betrayed by someone whom he had helped in good faith, smiled and shrugged it off, saying he did not mind helping those in need. Hawke who, confronted by slavers, gave them the opportunity to swear they would change before killing them. Hawke who, though he is terrified of the templars himself, understands and supports his brother's decision to join them, who accepts that Fenris supports them even though he explains why he, personally, does not.
Hawke who, if Fenris is honest with himself, he loves.
He cannot understand it but if Hawke wants something within reason, Fenris wants to grant it to him. And this is something no one else can, or ever will, give to this man. He is too private and too afraid of being hurt by someone who would abuse his trust. He loves too many, too well, and though they love him in return, he has chosen Fenris as the one he loves most intimately.
"If you wish it," Fenris tells him, settling the long discomfort in his belly with a promise to himself not to let it go too far. "I will do it."
Hawke falters, perhaps thinking that Fenris's intent does not quite match with what he asked, but nods.
And then they are in the dungeon, and Fenris takes Hawke roughly by the arm, dragging him the rest of the way. Whatever protest the mage musters dies down when he finds himself pressed against the wall, Fenris's fingers gripping the shadowed line of his erection through his robes to hold him in place. Hawke gasps as Fenris bites down on his throat, whispering at last when he pulls away:
"S-so what-- what rules should be established, here?"
Fenris meditates on that while he begins to divest Hawke of his clothing, undoing the loose ties at Hawke's throat and then the careful sash at his waist a trifle more roughly. In no time at all, Hawke's back hits the cold stone behind it, bare, and his pants follow the robes in a pile on the floor.
"Fen- Fenris?"
He places one gauntleted finger over Hawke's lips. Every time the mage speaks, it makes him flinch, makes his shoulders tense. If Hawke keeps talking, he will not be able to do this, he will not believe that Hawke wants it. Not when he sounds so frightened.
So, he meets Hawke's gaze, evenly, and slowly moves his finger away.
"First rule; you do not speak unless you want me to stop, or I ask you to. If you speak out of turn, I will assume we have gone too far, and I will end it."
Hawke's throat bobs as he swallows slowly, but he nods in agreement.
"Second; when I tell you to do something, you do it. You are welcome to struggle or resist, but if you do, the consequences may be more painful than they are pleasurable." He hesitates, and adds quietly, "If you-- wish to feel pain, then you now know how to earn it."
Now that he is sure Hawke understands the ground rules, he steps back and begins to undo the catches and buckles on his own armor. He does not remove his gauntlets or his breeches, but the chestplate will be useless here, and he does not require the additional leather pads to protect his legs. He sets them aside, bare-chested and (though it's a little embarrassing) faintly glowing in the dim light of the dungeon's single torch.
"Third; I will take my pleasure of you as I see fit." He is worried this will not really be possible, but for Hawke's sake the charade is at least necessary. Fenris has resigned himself to at least one night of this, but suspects that, come morning, Hawke will take it all back. At least this way it will be with him, and it will be safe. He hates to think what Hawke might do if denied what he thinks he craves, and left to find others to satisfy his requests. "But you may not take your pleasure without permission."
Hawke still stands braced against the wall. Lust is clear enough on his face, and maybe a sort of heady intoxication. It seems he is as eager to experience what it's like to be a slave as he is to be with Fenris again. He is not the only one who finds this situation-- mildly arousing.
"Stay," he says, and marches off to the armory, which is not far, but far enough. There, he rummages through the old equipment, coming away with a pair of not-too-badly rusted shackles, a wooden chair, and a whip. He doubts he will need anything more than this.
When he returns, Hawke has clearly not moved, though being left alone has made him jumpy and he seems unsure it if is Fenris or some stranger, at first. Visibly relaxing, he smiles, watching Fenris set down the chair and then sit in it.
"Come here," he says easily, arranging the chair to lean against the wall and setting the whip on the floor at his feet. Shuffling obediently over, Hawke looks down at him in puzzlement. "Kneel." Hawke kneels.
Fenris holds up the shackles, and takes Hawke's right wrist, closing the first shackle about it and then pushing it behind Hawke's back. This pushes Hawke's face into his chest and the lyrium marks there, and unbidden, the magician begins to lick them, shivering when Fenris closes the second shackle and sits back in his chair. Hawke follows him, pressing his lips against Fenris's navel, suckling it.
Grabbing his shoulders, Fenris pushes him back, frowning down at him. "While the effort is-- appreciated," he purrs, unable to truly be annoyed when Hawke licks his lips so eagerly. "I have a more worthy use for your tongue."
Carefully, he pulls the waist of his pants lower, freeing his erection. The lyrium marks might end at his inner thighs and the coarse line of his pubic hair, but they silhouette that line of flesh in a way Hawke seems to find entrancing.
"This will be a very long night," he promises quietly. "And I have served your only meal. Savor it."
Hawke's breath catches on excitement and he crawls a bit further forward on his knees, running his tongue along the tip, then along a large vein on the underside, and down to his inner thighs. There, his lips pick up the trail of Fenris's tattoos, tasting the long sharp lines that cut like clawmarks over this sensitive patch of skin. Jerking in his chair, Fenris bites his lip, fisting one hand (heedless of his gauntlet's claws) in Hawke's rich auburn hair.
"Distracted?" He growls, pulling up and steadying Hawke with his other hand; with both settled there, he draws the mage's head in close, forcing the tip of his erection past those shining, slightly swollen lips. "Here."
He relaxes his grip, but does not let go. Hawke, realizing that there is no direction but forward open to him, pushes again, eyes closing slowly as he tries to open his jaw wide enough to take the full length in.
There is something inherently beautiful here, something about Hawke's throat working around his dick (perfect) and tongue running along his skin (electric) and Hawke's eyes blinking wildly when he cannot go further, but he realizes that he has another inch to go before his nose will be buried in that coarse, dark hair-- the only hair not bleached by the lyrium burns aside from Fenris's eyebrows.
He pulls back, all the way to the tip, so he can breathe through his nose but Fenris will not let him break away. While there, he sucks hard on the tip, again and again, running his tongue along the lines of the head, under the foreskin until Fenris's hands go tight in his hair.
The sounds Fenris makes are delightful and make Hawke's face flush red. He hisses something in Tevinter, trembling, and moans, voice climbing higher and higher until he almost sounds as though he is in pain. Hawke's own arousal is pressing against his belly, his hands twitch uselessly behind his back. Fenris snarls, pulling Hawke down further than he was able to go on his own, all the way down until he is choking on how thick and full Fenris is, and Fenris is bucking up into him, fucking his face until the desperate pulse of orgasm has passed. He sighs, relaxing enough to let Hawke up, and the mage pulls back desperately, coughing, his throat thick with semen and drool.
He loses his balance, falls on his side and blinks in shock, still gasping for breath. When he tastes what little Fenris left behind on his tongue, a slow, sultry smile spreads across his face.
"Are you all right?" Fenris can't help asking, when he realizes what he's done. He doesn't crouch down to help Hawke up, not yet, but the fact that he asks at all makes Hawke raise an eyebrow at him. He seems mildly offended that Fenris still doubts his sincerity.
"You'll have to do better than that," he answers coyly, writhing slowly to get enough leverage to sit back up, to show off how interested he is in what they're doing. Just a little, he's curious what will happen if he resists, as Fenris's warning earlier was so vague. "I'll be forcing you down in no time. You haven't even got the guts to fuck me."
Fenris slaps him once, hard, across the face with barely the tip of his gauntleted hand, and it sends him into the wall. He falls silent immediately, obediently; it stings, but more with embarrassment that he was startled by the other man's action than any real pain. His shoulder aches, a little, where he hit the wall but he knew well enough to duck his head and waits to see what Fenris will do.
"Do not speak," Fenris warns him gently, "Unless spoken to." He stands from the chair, collecting the whip, and Hawke realizes how much the elf towers over him when he is kneeling here. "Now that you've had your dinner, it's time we got to work."
It is a heady sensation, standing over Hawke while the man is naked and defenseless, bound and relatively obedient. Fenris leads Hawke over to what was once a torture device and pulls him to his feet, pushing him into it. It is a metal brace, with clamps to secure the victim's legs, and connected to it is a deep basin. Usually, the basin would be filled with icy water, into which the victim could be pushed without risking any unintentional drowning. If a particularly cruel person filled the basin, they might use something worse; heated water, oil, poison. Fenris had, himself, suffered such a device under Hadriana's tutelage, when she meant to keep him awake for nights at a time while Danarius was not present to protect him. Ice-cold water did no permanent damage and sleeplessness, while brutal, could not be punished. It was the best way for her to lash out at him, and she had often taken it.
Fenris intends to use it for another purpose, though in the end, Hawke will likely still be exhausted. Once he has secured Hawke's legs, he takes position behind the man, sliding his hands along Hawke's chest. Hawke gasps, arcing back into him, but the press of the lyrium marks on Fenris's chest in great, fanciful designs and ancient runes is so tantalizingly pleasurable on Hawke's back that he shouts in surprise.
"I want you to cast magic for me," Fenris whispers, knowing that this will be no easy task. "using only your own, personal reserves. Summon ice until the tank before you is filled with it. When you have completed this task," he presses his lips to Hawke's shoulder blades, right, then left, "then you may have your release. But not a moment before."
Hawke, clearly dazzled by Fenris's proximity and, worse, by the lyrium shrilling along his back, asking to be used, just gasps for breath for several long moments. His fingers curl, and Fenris can feel them along his belly, presses closer to feel them pressed against his skin. He is enjoying himself; and it seems that Hawke is too, at least so far.
When he has gathered himself, Hawke reaches deep within himself, struggling to concentrate, and begins to cast the icy spells that Fenris has requested, carefully forming the crystals within the metal basin in slow, painstakng spirals. The longer he casts, the harder it is to focus. Fenris is so close behind him, and beginning to get hard again, as Fenris leans in and suckles his throat. He can feel that, pressed into the small of his back.
Fenris's gauntleted fingertips, sharp enough to draw blood, move with extreme care across his chest, teasing his nipples until Hawke suddenly loses hold of the spell he was casting and lets it fly. The basin fills with ice, but it is only a third full, if that. Now that he's lost it, Hawke finds that suddenly, he can't reclaim it. There is no pit of calm at the center of his belly, only the hot desire that flames across his skin, only the sound of Fenris whispering words in a language he doesn't know, only the feel of Fenris's body lined so close to his. He tries to reach, but he is confused and doesn't know where to turn.
The instant he touches the well of power beneath Fenris's skin, he feels Fenris go stiff behind him-- and then suddenly that touch, that gentle proximity is gone, and with a sharp crack the whip strikes his shoulders, destroying his concentration completely.
He shouts, but bites his lip against his complaint. In a way, he is determined to prove to Fenris that this is what he wants, and speaking now-- complaining about the consequences of his actions-- would be foolish. But he can feel the whipmark stinging along his spine, and suddenly his body is incredibly tense, listening, waiting for another strike.
"First mistake," Fenris's voice says at last, cool and calm as if none of that had happened. "One strike. If you make more, the number will quickly accrue."
Shivering, Hawke holds his peace, feeling the flush that spreads from his face down his neck, tellingly. He is rock hard now. He almost worries being whipped might make him-- lose it. He had not expected to discover himself excited by pain, be it his or anyone else's.
Fenris, who paces around to see Hawke's expression and examine the basin, seems mildly surprised as well.
"Since you cannot complete this task with my presence, you may continue without it. You must fill this basin with ice. I will return," he promises, wrapping the whip up and tying it to the waistband of his pants. "and you will be finished by then."
He doesn't have to say anything more, so he doesn't. He leaves, and Hawke stares after him for several precious moments, shivering slightly as he begins to feel the cold air seeping up from the ice has already summoned. The idea of being left here alone-- of being discovered by someone else-- is terrifying and exciting. He's horrified by his own reaction. He's more than a little confused by it.
It doesn't take him long to decide he'd better have the job Fenris gave to him done before the elf returns, and reaches down into the pools of his energy to call forth the ice.
Fenris takes this time to go through other parts of the mansion, collecting various tools that might be useful once Hawke has exhausted himself and can no longer cast spells to extricate himself from the situation they have created. He wonders if Hawke has realized the nature of the task set before him, but doesn't worry about it particularly. An hour passes before he has successfully converted the leather belt he finds into something that will serve well as a collar.
Back in the dungeon, Hawke is bent over the bed of ice he has created, panting with exhaustion, struggling to lift himself.
"Well done," Fenris says simply, unbinding Hawke's legs and letting him slide gratefully to the floor. Bending down, he fastens his makeshift collar about the mage's throat, a silk scarf around his eyes to blindfold him, and pulls the extra length of the belt as a short leash, forcing Hawke to crawl along on his knees until he stands to ease the pressure on his throat, nervously echoing Fenris's steps.
Some of the power of wielding power is simply wielding it without commentary; but for Hawke, who wants to be shown that he is not in control, that he is weak and vulnerable and that Fenris can make him do things he would not want to do-- Fenris suspects it is important to gloat over his power, as well.
"Now that you're defenseless," he says, watching the way Hawke's face turns toward the sound of his voice, lips parted, panting softly. "I intend to replace some of the furniture in the main room. You do understand the importance of good furniture, I hope."
Hawke answers, breathlessly, "Yes, sir."
"That's master, to you; always."
Stammering, Hawke bows his head quickly, apologizing. "Yes, master. I'm sorry, master."
"'you'? That shadow called 'Hawke' must disappear when you are working in this mansion." He hisses, getting very close to Hawke's ear, biting the lobe and savoring the little jump of muscles in Hawke's face, the way he swallows thickly and flushes a deeper color of red. "You are only a thing. You are only 'it'."
"Yes, master."
"And for now, you will replace my table," he adds, pinching one of Hawke's nipples. The sharp claws make the mage whimper softly, but he does not complain. "I've got to have somewhere to rest my feet."
He reads a book, occasionally lowering one foot and toying with Hawke's erection with his toes, punishing him verbally when he flinches or moves. The importance of absolute stillness, of inhuman silence, eventually becomes all Hawke is concentrating on. Fenris, now rather aroused, again, himself, takes his pleasure of Hawke without warning, pulling him by the collar up into his chair, spreading his ass and fucking him until he starts begging. Fenris reaches up, pressing first one, then two of his fingers into Hawke's mouth, careful not to curl them and tear his tongue, just suppressing it so he he cannot speak.
Hawke's whole body convulses when he is gagged, and then the muscle Fenris is plundering as he fucks Hawke senseless contracts. Tighter still. It happens so fast he doesn't quite realize the cause himself until he feels Hawke trembling as he moans with relief.
"You'll have to be punished for that," Fenris sighs, letting Hawke's mouth free so he can steady the man's hips on his own, thrusting his hips more sharply, as deep as he can manage, until he finds his own release. He is a little surprised that being gagged has such an incredible effect on Hawke, but he's completely stunned to find himself enjoying this so immensely.
"Ten lashes should serve as a warning," he purrs into Hawke's ear, watching the way Hawke's shoulders, his entire back pulls tense, anticipating the punishment even while sitting here in Fenris's lap, still impaled on Fenris's dick. Despite what he had thought at the beginning of the evening, Hawke seems to be fully aware of what he wants, for there is no plea for mercy, and when Fenris dumps him onto the floor, he falls without complaint, drawing himself up onto his knees and bowing there, waiting for the whip to come down.
With an almost artful efficiency, Fenris unfurls the whip he had tied to his waistband, giving it a cursory flip. The sound makes Hawke twitch, and while he waits, Fenris considers how hard, how deep, to make each strike. He does not want to hurt Hawke, and yet-- he knows, he knows that that is part of this request.
In the end, he can't bring himself to score deep; but he knows if he stands close enough, the welts will be long and sting sharply. He has had enough lashes in his time to know.
"Be still," he commands, and Hawke holds perfectly still, clenching his teeth against the urge to writhe out of the way as the whip comes down. The stripes of red sores open up in the wake of its black tongue, and Hawke hisses-- then gasps in surprise-- then coughs, choking on a furious cry. Fenris is sparing him long-lasting wounds, but he has made certain these marks will hurt. It is the kind of hurt that is only an annoyance, and not a threat. Only after he has finished, retied the whip in place and picked up the slack of Hawke's collar, does Fenris realize the tip licked around the mage's sides, once or twice, very nearly scoring one of his nipples.
Hawke's eyes are squeezed shut, and his breathing is coming sharp and short, his teeth grit against any further sound. Even though he has just spent his seed, he is plagued by arousal.
"Be still," Fenris orders, and unlocks the left shackle, pulling Hawke's hands from behind his back and reshackling them before him. "Good."
The mage stares up at him, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the moon, and there is lust and adoration lurking in his expression. It is trapped behind the flush of shame, the exhaustion, the tension of fear: Hawke has never given up control of his life before, and it shows. The fear controls him in the absence of his usual power. His fingers tremble, abortive little gestures that are reminiscent of spellcasting-- spellcasting which he cannot do because Fenris has made sure he is too weary to try, too spent to find his center, to focus and pull and shape the fabric of the Fade as he normally might. It's thrilling-- and a little terrifying-- to think how easily someone could do this to him.
He is glad it is Fenris.
"I'm going to take you for your exercise," Fenris says vaguely, tugging the leash with enough force to choke if Hawke does not match his pace as he turns towards the mansion's back doors. It exits onto a decrepit garden, overgrown and full of nice, shady spots. The garden is not out of view of their neighbors, however, and bright lights glimmer in the yard bordering Fenris's, where some nobleman is having a party.
Though at first, he crawled along as quickly as possible to match Fenris's pace, Hawke balks when they pass through the doors, eyes wide when he realizes the potential danger. He does not want to be recognized by any nobleman of anywhere, let alone those who might later see him in passing while he is going home. There are enough rumors about his affairs without giving them the fodder, and besides, it is cold and bugs are scampering about and--
The collar pulls tight, yanking him along so hard that his options are suddenly limited to move your hands or choke into oblivion. Panicking, he scrabbled for purchase, hyperaware of the scraping sound the chain between his shackles made when it dragged along the ground, of the roughness of the stone on his palms, of the continued pressure around his throat when the collar did not loosen enough because he was not keeping at Fenris's heel.
There is no means of complaint, so Hawke swallows his nervous words and does his damnedest to follow Fenris as he takes a long, circuitous walk through the vast gardens. There are many shadowed places where they might stop to take a rest that are safe from prying eyes. Hawke relaxes a bit when they pass out of the view of the neighboring yard, remembering the continued burn of the marks on his back, that throb with each heartbeat, a stinging reminder of his failure to obey.
He is determined not to fail again, even though it seems his heart is in his throat with fear. It is so much worse that his cock is leaping excitedly at his panicked thoughts of what if someone sees what if someone sees?
Fenris drags him along until he begins to find the rhythm, learns to ignore the feeling of things skittering by in the nearby dark, of the occaisional insect that crawls past his knees or over his fingers. He can't help shuddering, but when Fenris shoots him a displeased look as he hesitates over a particularly large beetle in his path, he understands that this is his lot in life, that 'he' is no more than a pet and that Fenris is the one who will decide what is and is not acceptable.
He has begun to drift into that hazy state of lust that he found while servicing as Fenris's footstool. Something about having all decisions taken away from him is intoxicating. He loses track of where they are going, only realizing at the last second that Fenris has circled back, and the brighter lights mean that they are only separated by a thin wall from the party going on next door.
For a moment, he freezes, staring at Fenris in shock. There is an impassiveness lingering there that makes him nervous. Fenris pulls him right up to the gate separating his mansion from the one next door, opens it, and steps through, dragging Hawke along behind him until Hawke genuinely begins choking, his fingers digging into the soft muddy turf, his knees dragging along the ground.
The collar locks tight, almost too tight to breathe, and Hawke gasps. It feels as though his tongue is swollen now, as though it is blocking important air. Fenris looks down at him disapprovingly, lightly kicking him in the side, and waits for him to recover.
His vision begins to spark lightly, spots dancing before him as he gags on the collar's cruel lesson. Each breath is a loud and raspy gasp. Drooling, he ducks his head, wishing he could hide his shame.
"Look up," Fenris instructs him, very calmly, his voice almost inaudible under Hawke's panting.
He does.
The people of this party are all in costumes; many are publicly making love, none of them are masked. Hawke is not the only one naked save a collar, though he is the only one fighting.
And his fighting has drawn their attention. The noblemen and women, he realizes, are not from town, and do not pay his face any attention-- they admire the smooth curve of his spine, the swell of his backside and his eager erection. Being unable to breathe has the decidedly alarming side-effect of making him strain for release as much as air; appreciative smiles are turned on his master, who is, in turn, praised for such a lovely find and, moreover, for his elaborate party-wear. Those markings-- they are painted with that glowing salve from Par Vollen, are they not?
Hawke pants, wheezes, and dimly hears Fenris answering easily, "Yes. I thought it appropriate to dress up for the occaision, though I've never participated before."
They talk for some time, but Hawke is fuzzy on the details, straining with his intense arousal (embarrassment, feeling their eyes occaisonally on him), his need to loosen the collar and confusion as to why they are here. What little he can still make out beyond the sound of his own breathing is that these gatherings occur nightly throughout the summer, and are hosted by an Orlesian mistress and her Antivan husband who prefer to remain anonymous.
When pressed, Fenris insists he had not been planning to come by on this particular evening.
That is how the conversation comes back around to him, and Hawke is mortified as a strange woman kneels down, taking his chin so she can turn his face side to side, looking intently at him, memorizing it. He would try to memorize hers, but the lack of air is beginning to get to him. He feels dizzy and can't keep his eyes open.
The sensation of other strange hands roaming over the rest of him-- roughly tracing the whipmarks on his back and examining the other parts of him-- makes him cringe, whispering, "please."
Fenris does not tell them to stop, but kneels, loosening the collar a bit. Hawke gasps for breath, coughing at the sudden bounty of that which he had been so sorely missing, but cannot catch Fenris's eyes. He stands again, still holding the collar at a loose position, and is impassive as roaming hands and leering face crowd around them, examining him thoroughly.
"Why weren't you planning on coming?" asks one man plaintively, his long, pale hair braided tight in a long line down his back. That he wears nothing seems only to add to his confidence, and when he turns slightly, Hawke can see the elaborate tattoos he is showing off that completely cover his legs and back.
"I did not know I would have company," Fenris lies, though it is only half a lie, since the essential statement is true. Hawke opens his mouth to protest, and Fenris tugs warningly on the collar, silencing him. That Fenris didn't even look is a little alarming; Hawke wonders how he knew, even as another woman, crouching on all fours just like him with only a golden collar on, leans in to kiss his neck, giggling excitedly. Her breasts are small and pert, and there is a glistening trail of arousal seeping from her sex.
He begins to panic in earnest.
"Ah! I thought he looked rather untrained. You're doing well, considering," says the older woman who had first grabbed Hawke's jaw to look at him. He isn't certain if he should be relieved or horrified that none of these people have accents suggesting that they are local. Perhaps if he doesn't speak at all, his identity will remain a secret.
"Thank you," Fenris answers with a wry smile that suggests he is very much enjoying himself. Desperate that Fenris look his way, Hawke stares up at him, unaware of the impression of utter adulation this gives to those who watch. The girl is rubbing herself against him, trying to initiate something he has no desire for. He shifts away until he is flush against Fenris's leg--
And Fenris knees him, knocking him over. The girl pounces, pinning his shackled hands above his head, kissing him deeply. She grinds her hips into his stomach, trying to slide down and find his erection by sensation alone. He would protest, but she's knocked all the breath out of his lungs and he's too weak to fight. His fingers twitch and he pulls away from her kiss, but can do nothing more.
"Marina!" The girl's owner, a young man that looks insecure, yanks her back, pulling her to his side and saving Hawke without knowing what he does. "What's gotten into you, darling?"
"Anyway; we'd be delighted to help you break him in, my dear," the old woman is saying. Hawke picks himself back up, wincing at the bruise in his side where the girl's knees hit him as she knocked him back, and then finds himself grabbed on all sides by helpful masters-- masters because they are not wearing collars-- who pull him up and trap him, holding him in place. Only his eyes are free, flicking to Fenris in shock. He opens his mouth to say he is not comfortable with this, but as soon as his lips part, someone has slid the length of his prick down Hawke's throat. He blinks back tears of surprise, beginning to feel a real fear, and gags until they ease up enough to let him get used to the sensation. Others kneel behind him, touching the ring of his asshole with oiled fingers.
And Fenris, with and all these noblemen and women, Fenris is just watching impassively, a vicious light in his eyes. Frightened, he tries to struggle, but cannot. Had this been the plan from the start? How long—
How long had Fenris—?
These strangers are incredibly gentle with him, stroking all the right places and teasing all the right responses past his stubborn sense of pride. A woman pulls his hand down to the soft skin of her breasts, encouraging him to play with one nipple while others stretch him, enter him; while still others grab the heat of his previously ignored erection, and stroke it—never enough to gain him any true pleasure, just enough to let him know they are aware of it. Fenris’s warning is a blaring alarm in his mind; if he takes his pleasure without permission, if they succeed in wresting another orgasm from him (though he is sure he is too tired for such a thing to be possible), then Fenris will be cracking the whip along his spine again. The thought no longer brings that sense of exotic excitement it did while they were safe and alone in Fenris’s mansion. Knowing that the number will only increase, he finds the very idea quite enough to keep his arousal in check.
Hoping that Fenris will realize he is uneasy, Hawke waits, groaning in light pain when the fingers in his ass withdraw, replaced by the more insistent heat of another man’s dick. It is difficult to breathe around the man in his mouth, he can’t move, he can’t think, he can barely breathe. When he realizes that there is no escape, that he has no power to free himself except to ride it out, his struggles cease: and they are gentle with him, but that is the only kindness.
It is the longest night he has ever experienced. They do not leave until the interest in his newness has waned and he has been sprayed with the seed of several men, been forced to taste the depths of many women. At some point he lost track of what was happening: all he knows is that Fenris's eyes have watched him, all this time. And now, in this dark and cold place, as the others leave, Fenris wipes him down and drags him back to the gate when no one is looking and no one will follow, pulls him back into the mansion and down into the basement.
He is tired; beyond tired, more tired than he thought he could ever be. While they took their pleasure of him, Fenris had been among those watching, touching himself, enjoying the show. Somehow, the thought that Fenris had been pleased with what he saw makes Hawke feel a little less betrayed as he crawls wearily on hands and knees over the stones to that same basin Fenris had made him fill before.
The ice, of course, has melted into frigid water.
Fenris tells him simply, "You're filthy," and throws him in.
All the cloudy sensation of sleepiness is leached out of him in shock at the cold. Hawke thrashes wildly, splashing and sloshing until he can catch the rim of the basin with his shackled hands, gasping for air. "F-fenri--"
And the collar yanks tight, silencing him with a sharp motion that terrifies him. This is no longer a game. It hasn't been for--
Was it ever?
Wincing, panting again so heavily that his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and he is drooling, he stares at Fenris, watches the man's face twist with some disgust or rage that makes him shudder in fear. Surely this is not the same person that refused his suggestions so enthusiastically until tonight. Something is wrong, something is wrong with Fenris.
"I didn't say you could speak, pet." The words are so virulent that Fenris has to spit them, enunciating each hard consonant as though it is a weapon. "Wash yourself."
Hawke gags on the collar's continued chokehold, but fury is beginning to boil in the pit of his belly. He's exhausted, he's hurt, and he has been trying to tell Fenris as much. The cold of the ice water only makes the whip marks sting more sharply in his back, no longer welcome and thrilling: just a reminder that Fenris has been taking this increasingly seriously.
So he does something perhaps a trifle unwise: he reaches out for the power he knows Fenris has, and uses it to improvise a weak spell to burst the collar and shackles open, blasting them apart with inelegantly applied force magic that leaves his wrists and throat smarting, that knocks him back deep into the tub and leaves him reeling.
He doesn't dare linger there, for the cold is overwhelming and could easily lure an exhausted body like his into giving up the fight for air if he gives himself a moment to gather his wits. Scrambling madly, fearfully, he clambers back up out of the water, shaking with frigid cold, throwing himself onto the floor beside the basin and crawling away. There is water, in his lungs: he coughs it up wretchedly, miserable and confused, and when he finds himself on hands and knees at Fenris's feet his first reaction isn't even to speak: just flinch, head ducked low, whimpering.
"--Hawke," says a voice that is faint with a fear different from his own, barely recognizable as Fenris at all. The feet before him stumble back, as if their owner would rather run away than face the realization of what he's just done. The stone beneath his knees is grimy and gritty and only makes the cold worse, but he lunges for those feet, grabbing one of Fenris's ankles in supplication.
The word that is wrenched out of him is only, "please."
They freeze where they are, and he can feel the tension in the man above him, feel his stomach pressed to the slimy floor of the dungeon, feel his own fear, conflicting: that Fenris will leave, that Fenris will hurt him. He doesn't even realize what's happening when Fenris finally crouches down, careful not to shift his feet and make Hawke believe he is trying to escape, until gentle, almost nervous fingers find their way into his sodden hair, gently scratching his scalp.
His wrists are still throbbing and sore from the shackles, and his back is beginning to scream with a lingering ache, now that his skin is drying. Desolate, he pushes up into that reassuring contact, whispering fearfully, "This-- it-- didn't want to be touched by anyone but you, master. Please." When he looks up, Fenris's expression is horrified, almost sick, and Hawke has to duck his head, blinking away tears of frustration, guilt. He's not sure what's wrong with him, himself. What he wants, what he thought he wanted, is exactly what Fenris had given him, except it wasn't anything of the sort at all. He has had embarrassing fantasies like that, but a fantasy never includes the very real pain that comes with the actuality.
"Hawke, I--" Fenris stops, his voice low and rough. He sits down carefully, and through gentle coaxing more natural to his usual bedroom manner, encourages Hawke to lay beside him, head cushioned in his lap. Stroking Hawke's face seems to comfort him; and to be stroked by Fenris is oddly comforting, even if he has a lingering terror beating in his heart, that they have gone far wrong from where they started. "I forgot," he says at last, in a very small, childish whisper, fearful. "that it was you I was hurting."
"--forgot?" Twisting a bit to look up at Fenris through half-lidded eyes, Hawke rubs at his arms to try to calm gooseflesh, still cold enough to take ill if they stay here long. Tired as he is, he can't conceive of getting up, either. Not without a considerable amount of assistance. "What do you mean?"
"I-- forgot," Fenris repeats, uncertainly, searching for the proper words. "Watching you crawl, hearing you beg," his fingers still in their careful scratching of Hawke's hair, and only at that moment does Hawke realize that sometime between when they returned to the mansion and now, Fenris had taken off his gloves to keep from scratching him with gauntleted claws. "It was not your face or voice I saw. I imagined Danarius, or one of his apprentices. And I was not-- kind." His mouth twists bitterly, a grimace from where Hawke lays watching his chin and lips.
Very quietly, Hawke tells him, "I didn't want to be touched by those people."
"No." There is an old pain in Fenris's voice that makes it soft, as if he is about to slip into angry shouting but fights it off.
"You-- abandoned me to them." He swallows a knot of resignation, adding with a touch of anger, "You enjoyed my fear."
Even softer: "Yes."
"Why?" He doesn't want to sit up, because laying on his back is only slightly less painful than moving and aggravating his back will be, but he does it anyway. Something in him needs to see Fenris's face, his eyes, whether he is being honest. Whether this was all a mistake. Whether, as the elf had teased him when the night began, Hawke simply hadn't known what he was asking for. "I tried to ask you to stop and you let them violate me."
There is a dull acceptance in Fenris's eyes, as if he has already anticipated that Hawke will punish him, in turn, for what he's done. He does not quite meet Hawke's gaze, instead staring down at his now empty hands. He does not speak.
"Worse," Hawke leans closer, pressing his lips to Fenris's ear, too embarrassed to say the rest louder than a whisper, "Worse, it didn't hurt at all, and I didn't hate it. And when I saw that you were--"
"I'm sorry," Fenris hisses back, turning away. Hawke follows.
"--were enjoying it, I started to-- enjoy that, too," he finishes, flushed red with shame. He is incredibly confused and not certain he likes this part of himself. The dungeon is so silent he can hear the treacherous drop of water that is still beaded along the rim of the basin. His skin is crawling with the need to be warm, or clothed, or at least touched. His back aches.
Instead of answering, Fenris slowly stands, offering Hawke a hand to help him up. He leads the mage (his mage) out of the dungeon and back to the warmth of the fireplace; wraps him in a blanket and rubs his hair dry, making soothing noises, never responding when Hawke tries to speak to him; treats the whip marks with a cool, refreshing feeling ointment and lays bandages carefully over them; leads Hawke to the same chair they fucked in not so many hours before, and kneels before him once Hawke has sat down, head bowed.
For a dazed moment, Hawke doesn't understand all these strange, insistent gestures of kindness. And then he laughs, slightly hysteric. "You can't honestly think I want to punish you for giving me what I wanted, can you?"
"It is only fair." Fenris's eyes are downcast again, and he has an uncomfortably servile feel to his posture. "I have hurt you."
"Because you remembered someone else," Hawke ventures tentatively, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. The pressure still makes sitting back unpleasant, and though he is now warm, he is also incredibly hungry. The room with the fireplace smells of liquor and death and faintly of coal. "Someone who'd done all this to you, hadn't they."
The look Hawke receives in answer seems to say yes. Or worse than yes. He's not certain he wants to know, or that Fenris wants him to know.
"I want you to control me, Fenris," he tries again, feeling small and stupid. "I felt-- I even enjoyed being actually, truly humiliated, though I really-- I don't ever want you to do that to me again." Laughing weakly, ignoring the stinging in his eyes, he looks away, too discomfited by Fenris's attempts to make up for his pain in obedience. "I hate making decisions. Whenever I do it seems that people are dying or starving or suffering and it's all my fault. I don't want to be some great, powerful magister. I don't want you to be my slave."
Fenris catches the shaky smile, even as the fire pops and its flickering illumination falls lower. The room is dim and heady and they are both flushed, exhausted. He's never seen Hawke look so fragile.
It is nearly enough to drive a man crazy. "I want to be yours. Just yours. Not anybody else's."
He can't help the expression of mistrust on his own face. "Still?"
"Yes, still, though I don't think I'll be wanting any attention for a few days until all the sore is healed." Hawke laughs, breaking off into a startled groan when Fenris takes his right hand, bringing it up to those very repentant lips and sucks in his thumb for something that is like a kiss and nothing at all like a kiss. "What--"
Fenris's hands find their way into the folds of the blanket, teasing the sensitive skin of Hawke's belly, his balls, circling but not touching his penis until his attempts to protest die completely away, something like amusement written under the growing cloud of lust in his earnest eyes. Only after Hawke has stopped all manner of protest does Fenris remove his lips from the other man's thumb, which he has been paying attention as though it were quite another extremity.
"If you are...to be mine," he begins to let his hands creep closer to their destination, gentle fingers carefully teasing every sensitive spot of Hawke's that he knows. Fenris watches Hawke's expression, savors the way the mage is beginning to hang on his every word. "Then I must make restitution for my misstep. I am not fit to be your master if I have hurt you."
Hawke begins to answer, then seems to remember back to the rules they had established and bites his lip instead. He presses his hips forward in silent assent when Fenris's fingers reach but only gently encircle (without quite touching) Hawke's growing arousal. Only once he nods his agreement does Fenris continue, ardently kissing Hawke's knees, pushing away the remnants of the blankets as he nears the other man's inner thighs and noses the skin here, as well. Hawke shivers, making a soft sound like purring.
"I also forgot to permit your release, earlier," Fenris adds apologetically. "I want to taste your pleasure."
For a moment, Hawke forgoes the rules, a strange, pleasant shiver running through him. "Please, do." Then a slow smile spreads over his lips as Fenris pushes closer, and runs his tongue up the length of Hawke's prick. "--Please, master," he breathes, sinking back into the chair in surrender, helpless to Fenris's ministrations. He is not the only one who seems to delight in his boneless acceptance of his fate.
In an almost painful contrast to the earlier evening, Fenris is cruelly cautious as he begins his act of contrition. Like a man praying for the first time, he spends many moments just breathing on the head of Hawke’s growing erection, lips parted, watching the way Hawke stares down at him, tongue near but not yet moving. When he finally does press forward, Hawke moans gratefully. Fenris drags his teeth over that sensitive skin and sucks with such intensity that it makes Hawke howl with a wild abandon, shuddering when Fenris pulls away to hear the sound of Hawke pleading for him to continue.
He drags out their contact for many minutes, until Hawke’s hands are on his head, trying to push him forward. Gently, he issues his first command, in almost an undertone: “Your hands cannot move from the armrests.” The words are so softly spoken one might almost worry they would be lost under Hawke’s fevered panting, but the mage hastily obeys, gripping the armrests to control his desire.
Pleased, growing more confident that this is more in line with what Hawke had wanted all along, Fenris presses Hawke's legs firmly out, bracing them against the unyielding strength of the armrests, of the sturdy chair. It seems right to pin the man before him, and Hawke’s breath catches on a startled (pleased) sigh as Fenris sucks him in, taking him all the way to the base of his cock and growling around him. The feeling drives Hawke past his endurance—he bucks up once before he can think to stop himself—and then Fenris busies himself with sucking down Hawke’s release with greater abandon, occasionally stopping in the midst of a particularly promising moan or sigh, nipping the head of Hawke’s straining erection, and smiling up at him until he begs for more.
When Hawke finally reaches release, Fenris pulls back, catching semen on his tongue, his lips, across his cheek, a personal penance of shameful (and shamelessly wanton) marking.
They sleep curled together in one of the few corners of the mansion that does not have any lingering sense of death or evil within it, nestled on soft cushions and in thick blankets. When morning comes and goes, Hawke is comfortably entangled in Fenris's embrace.
He asks, sleepily, "Is it safe to stay?"
And Fenris answers: "I will not forget again."